


i carry your heart with me

by mystarsandmyocean



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystarsandmyocean/pseuds/mystarsandmyocean
Summary: Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible for Anne to withstand her father’s ill will, Lady Russell’s continuous advisals, but if not for a matter of science and self-denial. Neither Anne nor Captain Wentworth bore the other’s mark.***a soulmates AU where your first words to your soulmate are inscribed over their heart





	i carry your heart with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenyty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenyty/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, serenyty!
> 
> Poem credit goes to "Sonnets from the Portuguese 14: If thou must lover me, let it be for nought" by Elizabeth Barret Browning (my own nod to Anne & Benwick's debate re: the merits of poetry)

> _If thou must love me, let it be for nought  
>  Except for love’s sake only. _

 

“You mean Mr. Wentworth, I suppose?”

It has been an eternity since Anne Elliot stood before her mirror, hands pressed to heart, willing, willing, _wanting_ for the first words of her fiance to appear -- _“How do you do, Miss Elliot?”_ \-- and still, all she can she feel is the weight of her palms upon her chest, bruising and hard, as his name passes through her lips, the first public mention which has she made of him, however obscurely, in these infinitely long years.

“Yes, yes, Miss Elliot--Wentworth was the very name! Mr. Wentworth was the very man.” Mr. Shepherd beamed at Anne and blustered forth, “He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year five, I take it. You remember him, I am sure.”

It is disarming the ease with which Anne dismisses her father’s vanity; for a rare instance, her focus is not with her family, their finances, or all other matters most unrelated to her happiness. Instead, she recalls the still unblemished skin above her heart, the steadfastness with which she had held fast to an inaccurate science and improbable chance, and the impossible likelihood of a secondary meeting.

She does not blame Lady Russell for persuading her against the match, nor does she blame herself for the ease with which she was persuaded. A love match, a soul match, is a rare and wondrous thing, and to have risked their futures without such an advantage would have required a level of foolhardiness that no older women would have advised to their young charge.

Still, still, still -- Anne thinks of that unblemished skin, and Frederick’s -- no, no, Captain Wentworth now -- vow that his own should remain unchanged as well. _“And,”_ he’d sworn, with all that wondrous arrogance of youth, _“should it change, what should it matter? We shall be married, and happily at that. A match is no guarantee of happiness, dear Anne, only ask my brother of those he has blessed as proof.”_

And, she _has_ seen proof, has she not? Her sister, Mary, and Charles Musgrove are hardly a doe-eyed match, for all that their hearts beat as one -- their agreement only as soon settled, for one matter, on which they agreed mattered not, before continuing forth to another matter, on which they might disagree. Theirs is a kind of love, Anne supposes, and should she wish for happiness, she only need look at Charles’ parents or the newly wed Mrs. Hayter, formerly of Henrietta Musgrove, who could do nought but praise her married bliss in each and every meeting.

Still, her heart beats; still, he must now have been persuaded otherwise, a man married and happily so and with a match of his own. She has only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but he has encountered so many people, so many souls, in the years since their parting, that she has no reason to believe him otherwise situated. She has never _wanted_ for a reason to believe otherwise.

Still.

 

***

 

> _Do not say,_  
>  _“I love her for her smile—her look—her way_  
>  _Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought_  
>  _That falls in well with mine, and certes brought_  
>  _A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—_

 

He does not expect to find her unchanged; instead, he hopes, foolishly perhaps and unforgivably reckless, to find her. To find her --

He cannot, no, cannot, _will not_ finish that thought.

He cannot hope where Anne Elliot is concerned. He will not. It is a mantra tattooed against his heart, as familiar as the naval code and the build of the ships which he has captained, a prescriptive and a prayer he has swallowed as dutifully as any sickbed patient. He will not tear at the skin above his heart, shook still with fear that script has appeared, words etched into his soul from one who is not _her_. He has lost too many years this way, and he will lose no more.

“Miss Elliot.” He bows, perfunctory; reluctantly, he drinks her in. Already, she looks away, and he calls to mind her weak will, her pliant nature. He wills her eyes towards his, her heartbeat in line with his own, but he is not the one who has any claim to her soul, is he? Her soul is for another, more eloquent, more _prominent_ man -- and to him, he only wishes well.

 _I cannot prevent her from finding the man who will truly lay claim to your heart!_ , he repeats to himself, her own words in argument, before turning to the Misses Musgrove. The Misses Musgroves are delightful to talk with, cheerful and easy to please, if not the most thoughtful or well-rounded of ladies. If he imagines her eyes on his, even as the door shuts behind him, he ought not think otherwise, ought not wish for more.

He will aim his sights lower. A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, he will tell Sophia when she asks.

He will not tell her of the woman he once -- and now _will not_ \-- want.

He cannot.

 

***

 

> _For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may_  
>  _Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,_  
>  _May be unwrought so._

 

Of the economies taken by the Elliots, none have given Anne more joy than the sacrifice of her mirror, that cursed reflection of her fate. It has been years since searching fingers traced the skin around her breast, hopeful, than hateful, of her pale skin. She happily bid Mary not to think of sharing such an extravagance upon her arrival at the Musgroves, and it is only with reluctant curiosity that she approaches the mirror in her room at Lyme.

 _“Fanny had little use for poetry,”_ Captain Benwick had reflected, _“We did not bear each other’s marks, you see, and she had little patience for such foolish adulation of chance.”_

Another mark, Anne reflects, in Captain Wentworth’s favor, as if they are keeping score, as if he still cares. She is hardened enough that she may now sit and dine with him, even socialize as called upon, but she has little doubt that any affection he once held for her is long gone.

It is little relief that Louise, in a flight of fancy, confessed that though she has searched her skin countless times in the weeks since Captain Wentworth’s arrival, no words have made their mark upon her skin. Captain Wentworth does not hold much countenance for an imprecise, unreliable tradition, nor for those who hold weight in its worth.

Nor, she knows, for her.

Still, she cannot ignore the question, pressing upon the back of her mind, as she strips down to her chemise before the mirror, heart beating, beating, beating in her chest. She has not looked in weeks, months even, and surely --

Surely it cannot be.

Still, still, still, she cannot ignore the small, spidery postscript, curved along her areola and barely legible to all but the most discerning eye.

There is Captain Benwick, those acquaintances newly met, and who else, who else, _who else_ can Anne lay claim to those words?

 

_Miss Elliot_

 

 _“So altered I should not have known her again,”_ her heart beats, foolishly, recklessly, before she can stop its desperate lurch.

It cannot be him. To the most distant shores of her very soul, she knows this.

Still, her heart beats.

 

***

 

> _Neither love me for_  
>  _Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry:_  
>  _A creature might forget to weep, who bore_  
>  _Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!_

 

_a surgeon_

 

They are not Anne’s first words to him -- she has said, dozens of words to him since his return, and thousands, mayhaps more, in those brief, flittered months of courtship. But-- and here, he thinks, reverently stroking the bold lines of script, is the irony, even the rub--they are the first words of hers that he _hears_ , not as a boy infatuated, not a suitor embittered by scorn, but as Frederick, the man he has always, however inaccurately, judged himself to be.

He will not ever forget the superior look on Louisa’s face, the unpersuadable confidence of her stance and conviction of her will, pressing, pressing, pressing down upon his own. He, who had sworn his own will immovable, his own mind unmoving, certain, steadfast. Yet it is not Louisa who has sunk him adrift, a midshipman on first voyage, waging war against sea and storm and sky. It is not she who has been made the fool, too full of hubris and fear and want, to see the truth.

Louisa may not wake, may not _survive_ , yet it is not she to whom his thoughts grasp hold.

Anne, Anne, Anne, his heart beats beneath a tattoo both familiar and new, Anne with the calm heart and steady hands, to whom he once entrusted his heart and now cannot, cannot, _cannot_ believe ever gave it back. How could she, when there has been none but her of whom he thinks, none but her whom he could love?

He cannot believe he has been so blind.

He finishes tearing off his cravat, his vest, his shirt, eager to wash away the sight of Louisa’s pale face, Mary’s incessant wailings, his own insipid response. He has always loved Anne, he acknowledges, but her words upon his chest do not give him false hope. Had he not persuaded her to think otherwise; has he himself not scoffed at the weight newly added to his heart? Not more powerful, perhaps, but a power nonetheless--he does not doubt he loved her as a boy, but he knows now what it means to love her for her own sake.

Tomorrow, his heart hopes, he will start anew, and see what damage he may unwrought--but perhaps, his heart beats, perhaps, he can bear to her the words upon his heart another way. Perhaps, Anne can see he is no longer a boy, no more a fool, but a man.

Perhaps.

 

***

 

> _But love me for love’s sake, that evermore  
>  Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity._

 

“Do you think this a good plan?”

“Yes, of course,” Anne cannot help smiling at him, all thoughts warm and encouraging in her tone. How can she not? This Frederick resembles not the indifferent Captain Wentworth of most recent times, but the man she loved, loves, _will love_ , and she cannot stop the hope beat, beat, beating in her chest.

“Good, good.” Yet he makes no move from the carriage, his gaze undecided between her and the carriage, the horses and his hands. He scrambles down, eyes averted, and Anne is so focused on willing his face towards hers that she does not feel the press of his hands on hers until he has already turned away, striding confidently towards the Musgroves house.

She cannot, cannot, _cannot_ hope. And yet --

There is a letter. Addressed, hardly legible, to: _Miss A.E._ When Frederick returns, Anne presses her hand to space above his heart, leaning close, close, closer, so he can hear--“Yours has _always_ been the name inscribed upon my heart.”


End file.
